


The Skateway

by chlochlo



Series: The Skateway [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2020-10-01 23:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlochlo/pseuds/chlochlo
Summary: “Are you telling me as the Queen or as a business partner?” Scott asks eventually.I’m telling you as your friend, is what Tessa meant to say. But instead, what comes out of her mouth is, “Fuck you, Scott.”(Originally posted on 29/08/2019. Edited on 28/06/2020)





	1. Prologue

The door bursts open as though a hurricane is tearing through the vicinity. It slams against the wall in perfect synchronicity with a flash of lightning. Julia Breagan, the newly appointed Assistant to the Chief of Staff of the Prime Minister, jumps, the cup of coffee in her hand splashing onto the tray.

“Is the Prime Minister in?” a man, whom Julia recognizes as Sir Richard Young, Private Secretary to the Queen, says.

“Y—yes, he arrived maybe ten minutes ago,” Julia stammers. “Would you like me to—”

Sir Richard strides past the nonplussed woman, another three men trailing behind him, and doesn’t even bother to knock before turning the door knob.

“Sir!”

Hastily setting down the cup, Julia scrambles over the chairs her co-workers neglected to push in the previous evening. She crosses the room in record time and enters the Prime Minister’s office right on Sir Richard’s heels, apologies sputtering out of her mouth and the dread of her impending unemployment clunking around in the pit of her stomach.

The Prime Minister silences her with a grave look. “Close the door please, Ms. Breagan.”

He then turns his attention to Sir Richard. The somber atmosphere in the room states that in the five to ten seconds it took for Julia to catch up to the intruder, something terrible has happened.

“Have all of the family members been informed?” the Prime Minister says.

Sir Richard glances over his shoulder at Julia, who is resting her back against the door, as though her body might serve as a necessary additional barrier between the words that are being uttered in this room and the gossipy outside world.

“They have,” he says. “Princess Charlotte should be arriving later this afternoon.”

“And what about _him_? Has _he_ been informed?”

His hands clasped behind his back, Sir Richard leans forward just a fraction of an inch. “Him?”

The Prime Minister, an aging man with less patience than he’s got years to live, stares Sir Richard down like the younger man is his student that clearly has not been paying attention to his lectures thus far.

“Oh!” Sir Richard exclaims after a minute or so. “_Him_!”

The Prime Minister clucks his tongue disapprovingly. Sir Richard lowers his head in embarrassment, though Julia doesn’t quite understand why. The pronoun ‘him’ is about as ambiguous as it can get.

“He has not,” Sir Richard Young says once he has recovered.

The Prime Minister either clears his throat or coughs or does both simultaneously. He takes a gulp of the herbal tea his wife brews for him every morning.

“Well, I suggest you get a hold of him before news gets out. Especially considering…” He clears his throat again, this time intentionally and for no reason other than to avoid completing his sentence.

“I was under the impression that that was a rumor.”

“Every rumor is rooted in some truth.”

“That is a big accusation you are making there, Michael.”

The Prime Minister leans back in his chair. Lacing his fingers together, he places his hands on his round belly. “It was not an accusation, Richard, simply an observation.” His eyes flit to the fly on the wall. “Ms. Breagan.”

Julia nearly rolls an ankle as she straightens up. “Yes, sir?”

“Call the foreign secretary and tell her, ‘The Skateway is closed.’ She’ll understand.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, one hand already on the doorknob.

“Also, Ms. Breagan…”

A few strands of Julia’s hair sticks to her lips at the force of her torso whipping around at the calling of her name.

“Call Mr. Scott Moir and tell him…” The Prime Minister purses his lips in deep contemplation. He sighs. “Never mind, Ms. Breagan. Just the foreign secretary, please.”

“Yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 1

** _February 2046_ **

_“This is Toronto. It is with great sorrow that we once again make the following announcement: It was announced late Wednesday morning that the Queen—”_

Scott cranks the dial of the rusty old radio resting atop the fireplace.

_“—Queen Theresa of Canada passed away in her sleep—”_

He cranks the dial again.

_“—and although it has not yet been confirmed, it is most likely that the Queen’s eldest—”_

And again.

_“—our hearts go out to her three daughters, whom at the age when their peers are just learning the joys, perils, and losses that come with adulthood, have lost both parents—”_

And again.

_“—so, Canada’s royal family is slightly different from the rest in that they don’t really have a line of succession, is that right?”_

_“Well, in theory they do, but in practice, the monarch states who they wish to be their successor, which, mind you, usually follows the line of succession anyways. Now, in the case of the late Queen, it is unknown if she had already made the decision before her untimely death. If her will does not state a successor, the Crown will fall onto the head of her eldest child, which, of course, is Princess Jane.”_

_“Is she included in the line of succession, though? You know, since—”_

“It’s all they’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Scott quickly turns the radio off. At the doorway is Charlotte, the youngest of Tessa’s three daughters. Barely out of high school, Charlotte has a great passion for baking, having inherited her love of pastries and sweets from her mother. She went to college to appease her parents more than anything else. Her capstone project had something to do with the chemistry of baking. Canada was treated to many delightful clips of various pastries rising in the oven during that tumultuous year.

As Charlotte walks towards him, Scott can’t help but notice the dark circles hanging beneath her eyes. Tears are threatening to spill out of her emerald orbs. Scott envelopes her in a warm hug. It serves two purposes: to comfort her and to give her time to collect herself. Charlotte was a lot like her mother in that way; she did not like shedding tears in the presence of others.

Scott squeezes Charlotte even tighter, eliciting a grunt from her.

“Uncle Scott,” she complains, and oh, how he’s missed hearing Tessa’s girls call him that, “I can’t breathe.”

Her exaggerated squeak makes him chuckle, and he lets her go after one last smoothing down of her hair.

“Let me get a better look at you,” Scott says, holding Charlotte at arm’s length.

“Oh, please don’t. I’m a mess.” Charlotte laughs, wiping stray tears away from the corners of her eyes. “I’ve spilt coffee on myself twice today already, and I swear I’ve still got flour in my hair from last week.”

Charlotte is a dead ringer of Tessa, the only one to have inherited her mother’s eyes and chocolate brown – almost a shade of auburn under the sunlight – hair. Less so right now, only because Tessa rarely dressed in black from head to toe, but Scott recalls receiving a photo taken at Charlotte’s high school graduation and having to do a double take. Charlotte had chosen a aby blue dress for the occasion, one that hugged her torso and ruffled out from the waist down. Her then straight hair was half-up, half-down, and Scott was zipped right back in time to Gothenburg, 2008.

“You look just fine,” Scott reassures her. He gulps, hating that he even has to say his next words aloud, then adds, “I am so sorry, Lottie.” She’s sick of hearing those words, for sure, but Scott isn’t sure what else he could possibly say. He has been to his fair share of funerals, but he has yet to find the right balance between expressing his condolences without sounding like a broken record. “How are you holding up?”

Charlotte dodge the question neatly using her years of media training. “We weren’t expecting you so soon, Uncle Scott. We thought you’d get here the day after tomorrow at the earliest, what with the Olympics and all.” She pauses, and Scott can see the gears in her brain turning, calculating the hours it might have taken him to get here, taking into consideration driving time, flying time, and the time difference between Canada and Japan.

“My god,” she gasps once she’s finished her calculations. “You must have dropped everything to get here.”

Scott snorts, an undignified sound that bursts out of him uncontrollably. “That’s usually what you do when someone dies, Charlotte,” he says. He shuffles his feet and finds himself staring down at them. He stops once he realizes he’s getting mud on the hardwood floor. “The folks at Air Canada were very helpful. Even waived the fees when they realized what I was flying back for.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Scott. You think Air Canada just forgot that they used to sponsor you?” Charlotte smirks and announces in a very broadcaster-like manner, “Five time Olympic medalist, three-time World Champion, eight-time—”

“Alright, alright.” Scott forces a laugh. It sounds wretched, like he’s forgotten how to do so and is trying to re-learn by imitating a rusty recording from the 50’s. “Ok, maybe they recognized me from my glorious days as their poster boy.”

“Damn right they did,” Charlotte winks. Scott half-expects Tessa to bolt out of her coffin and reprimand Charlotte for her poor word choice, voice stern but eyes glistening with amusement and teeth biting the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from bursting out into hysterical laughter at her daughter’s cheekiness. The thought makes him smile, albeit sadly.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Charlotte shrugs. “Not really. The staff seem to have a better idea of what needs to be done than we do. They’re like a well-oiled machine; they’ve been running around with checklists all morning.” She studies Scott for a moment before continuing. “There is one thing, though.”

“What is it?”

Charlotte hesitates once more. Scott’s heart drops even further into the pit of his stomach.

“It’s nothing bad,” Charlotte is quick to reassure him. “It’s just that we were talking the other night, Jane, Ellie, and I, and the topic of what to do with all of Mom’s skating stuff came up. I’m sure they’ll urge us to put them on display and donate them to museums and all, but we thought perhaps… perhaps you might like to come look through them and…” She trails off, in no small part due to Scott’s inability to keep himself from blanching at the implication of her words.

“You know what? Never mind.” Charlotte beams and waves her previous words away hastily. “Jane’s just thinking ten steps ahead again.” She rolls her eyes. “Knowing Mom, she’s probably stated exactly where she wants each of her belongings to end up in her will anyways.”

_That _would _be a very Tessa Virtue thing to do_, Scott thinks. “How are your sisters doing?”

“Let’s see… well, Jane’s being Jane, fussing over flower arrangements and whatever else she thinks she can be in control of, and Elle’s being Elle and has seemed to have confused grief with anger.”

“Sometimes, they’re one and the same,” Scott offers.

“Yeah, I guess.” Charlotte exhales loudly but perks up immediately afterwards, shoving her own sorrows behind her bubbly, public façade. “Speaking of which, there’s been a bet going around for who the next Queen will be. Want to pitch in? No money involved, but winners get a batch of my delectable chocolate chip cookies.”

Scott laughs, because it is an oh-so-Charlotte thing to do, to try to come up with some way to bring a little joy to those around her during dark times, even though she herself is the one who is suffering the greatest loss of them all.

“I could never pass up an opportunity to have some of your cookies.”

“That’s what I thought. So, who do you think it’ll be? The Sugar or the Spice?”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “What about the Everything Nice?”

Charlotte chortles. She loops an arm around his and leads him out of the room. “Oh, don’t be silly, Uncle Scott.” She nudges his shoulder lightly. “There’s no way it’s going to be me. Mom knew all too well that if I had it my way, Rideau Hall would be a giant gingerbread house, with cream puffs for door knobs and sour strips in place of that god-awful fabric that covers the interior of the Tent Room.” She wrinkles her nose. “Mom would be so horrified, she’d climb right out of her grave to give me a good scolding.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Scott’s lips. “More like to sample the cream puff door knobs,” he says.

*

** _February 2026_ **

“Ben!” Tessa hisses with as much gravity as she can muster. Her husband promptly ignores her squirms and tosses her up in the air, just enough for him to reposition her so she is flush up against his chest. “Benjamin Charles. Put me down right this instant.”

A nonchalant hum is the only answer she gets out of him. Her heels dangling from his fingers, Ben starts walking up the stairs, slowly but steadily. Tessa squeals and throws her arms around his neck. She looks over her shoulders down the spiraling staircase, weary of the staff members that are residing just down the hall.

“Ben,” she tries again, her voice a tad firmer but the wide grin on her face betraying her and putting the teenage-like glee her husband draws out of her on full display, “put me down. What if someone sees us?”

“Then they see us. It’s not like we’re doing anything scandalous.” His footsteps come to a halt, prompting her to look up at him. He is grinning like a Cheshire cat as he angles his head so his lips are right by her ear and adds a rather salacious, “_yet_.”

She swats at him playfully. “You are unbelievable.”

Their bedroom door has been shut close, presumably by the Nanny so that their girls wouldn’t play bouncy castle on their bed. Tessa reaches over to turn the door knob and give it a slight push. Ben opens it the rest of the way using his body weight. The door hits the wall with a thump. It echoes down the corridor, and both Tessa and Ben freeze, eyes and ears open for any signs of little feet pitter pattering down the hall.

Fortunately, their girls have inherited Ben’s ability to sleep through just about anything.

Ben sets Tessa down on the bed before plopping onto it himself. He motions for her to turn around and starts unraveling her hair, taking the large barrette out first, then scavenging for the hundreds of bobby pins jammed in to keep everything in place. Once in a while, he runs his ringers through her locks. If she weren’t seated upright under a layer of caking, oily make-up, she might have dozed off.

“How was Italy?” Ben asks, knowing full well that she had a tendency to get cranky if she let herself get too drowsy before getting showered.

“It was fine. I got to see all of the figure skating events. That was a treat.”

It had been a while since Tessa let herself set foot near an ice rink. Not because she has ill feelings towards the sport she’d dedicated two decades of her life to, but rather because all she remembered from those years were the good, even the bad and the ugly memories transformed into nostalgic ones as time passed. The simple sight of the Rideau Hall Skating Rink made her heart clench at times.

“I let the girls watch for a bit before they left for school,” Ben says. “Jane was tickled pink when they played that little clip of you and Scott skating.”

Tessa’s throat tightens. “She recognized me?”

“Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m not exactly in my late 20’s anymore?”

The bed rises as Ben gets up. He comes around and kneels in front of Tessa. “You are just as beautiful now as you were the first day I saw you.” His hands still on her thighs, he stands up slowly. “And that was when you were in your _early_ twenties.”

Tessa groans. “I don’t ever want to see that green dress again.”

“It did kind of make you look like an avocado. A very beautiful avocado, mind you, but still an avocado.”

“Shut up, Ben,” Tessa laughs. Ben makes a duck face and leans in for a kiss, but she shoves him away lightly, still giggling at her husband’s earlier comment. He gives her leg a squeeze, then walks over to the dresser to get her something more comfortable to change in to.

“And how’s Scott?”

Tessa loses grip of the clasp of her necklace. Truth of the matter is, she has no clue how Scott is doing. He and his wife settled down in Montreal sometime around 2020, that much she knows. She’d had to find out he was working with the junior ice dancers at Gadbois through a live broadcast of the Junior Grand Prix Finals. A handful of teams from Gadbois – including one that Scott has coached since they were juniors – had qualified for the Olympics this year, so he’d flown out to Italy along with Marie and Patch. They’d had a nice, civil conversation over some biscuits and coffee. His words all pointed to ‘both my personal and professional lives are close to perfection,’ but there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite read.

“That’s wonderful to hear. I’m so happy for you, Scott,” was all she managed to say, her fingers breaking her biscuit in half, then in fourths, then in eighths and so on, till the one whole biscuit was reduced to meaningless crumbles.

He smiled stiffly, not unlike a smile he would’ve given the press all those years ago. It was in that exact moment that Tessa realized that she no longer knew the man sitting across from her.

“He’s doing well,” Tessa informs her husband. “His wife is pregnant with their second child.” Another one of those milestones in Scott’s life she’d had no clue about until it was humiliating that she didn’t know. It was downright unfair, really, that the person whose milestones and non-milestones were published in the tabloids was the one who saw fit to give her former skating partner a call once in a while and not the other way around. “She was there with her sister.”

Ben makes his way back over to her, an oversized shirt and plaid pants in his hands. He leaves them next to her. “Gather your hair up,” he instructs. He swiftly unclasps her necklace and sets it on the night stand. “Baby number two, huh? They’re catching up to us.”

“Yes. Speaking of which, how were the girls? Did they behave?” It’s a poor attempt at changing the topic from Scott to literally anything else, but if Ben notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“They were great. Had a little trouble prying them away from the television – they were enamored by the skaters, as if it weren’t obvious already that they’re your daughters – but otherwise, we were fine.” He takes a breath and pause with his mouth parted, eyes wide and hesitant.

“But?” Tessa feels the back zipper of her dress being undone slowly and prompts, “Ben.”

“Jane wants to learn how to skate.” He runs a finger down her spine, and Tessa can’t stop herself from shivering at the delicate touch. “Jordan was here last week with her kids and took Jane to the rink after closing hours.” He chuckles. “I thought I was never going to get her to bed.”

“Tessa,” he continues after a beat of silence, “I know being a member of the royal family _and_ a professional athlete wasn’t easy on you. And I know it was only made easier by the fact that you grew up with no certain expectation of the Crown. But I don’t think… just because she takes some skating lessons doesn’t mean she’s going to be the next Kaetlyn Osmond or Joannie Rochette.”

Tessa huffs, more out of amusement than bitterness. “I’ll let them know you said that. Usually, people go for Yuna Kim or Michelle Kwan.”

“I don’t want her to grow up feeling restricted by her birth order. Especially when she’s only first in line by convention.”

“Like Casey?”

Strong hands grip Tessa’s shoulders and maneuver her around so her back is no longer to him. Through her eyelashes, she is greeted by her husband’s kind eyes. There was once a time she’d catalogued them as ice blue -- as blue as the unforgiving Arctic Ocean, with a public persona as cold as towering glaciers to go with it, incapable of warmth and equally incapable of love.

Now, she understands that some of the brightest flames burn blue.

“Like me,” he says softly. Ben was the eldest of four, and it was never lost on her that the exorbitant amount of pressure and expectations his parents placed on him since childhood drove a wedge between them that didn’t get hashed out till he was well into his twenties.

“I never felt like I had a say in anything,” he’d told her once. “I remember going to get ice cream with some of my buddies in Eton and feeling thrilled that my mum wasn’t there to judge me for getting strawberry for once. It was kind of overwhelming, actually. I’d gotten so used to liking what she wanted me to like by that point that I was a total stranger to myself.”

“Sometimes, I look at the girls and think, ‘_What the hell have I done to these kids?_’” Tessa whispers.

Ben embraces her wordlessly. She buries her nose in the crook of his neck, takes in the minty tang of his body wash, and just like that, her resentment towards Scott, towards her brother, and towards her father build up into one massive tsunami and slams into her. She holds her tears in till her throat burns and her head pounds, but when Ben starts murmuring words of comfort in her ear and stroking her back, she finds that she can’t hold it in anymore.

“It’ll be alright, love,” he says.

“There’s just no right answer, Ben,” she chokes out in between sobs.

“There never is, Tess. You’re doing the best you can, and yes, maybe they’ll require some therapy later on in their lives—”

Tessa laughs a bit at this.

“--_but_ the fact that you did your absolute best to make the right choices for them will not change. Ever.” He pulls back and ducks down so that he can look Tessa in the eye properly. “Do you understand?”

Nodding, she places a chaste kiss on his lips. It quickly escalates into her pressing her weight on him until his back hits the pillows lined up against the headboard and him flipping them right over and peeling her dress off of her at a languid pace. She gets impatient eventually and is more than happy to kick the dress off when it pools at her feet, except Ben freezes right then, his lips hovering over one breast and his fingers grazing the other, and Tessa whines in spite of herself.

“I hate to tell you this, darling,” he says, peering up at her apologetically, “but I’m ninety-eight percent sure one of our daughters is out of bed.”

Sure enough, the jingle of the name sign hanging on their children’s rooms reaches Tessa’s ears, closely followed by a pitter-pattering of feet and a hesitant “Papa?”

“Your daughter has the worst timing,” Tessa groans the same time Ben climbs out of bed and tells their daughter he’ll be out in a second.

“_My_ daughter?” Ben gasps in mock offense. “How come she’s _my_ daughter whenever she’s interrupting our adult activities and not _yours_?” He reaches for his shirt and pulls it over his head, and Tessa props herself on her elbows to appreciate the sight.

“Hurry back, Mr. Blanchard,” she says as he’s headed for the door. She wiggles underneath the covers just in case their daughter is right outside. “A lady who has been away for a month has certain needs, you know.”

Ben sprints back towards her and leaps onto the bed, making her yelp. He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Yes, Your Highness,” he says, then he’s out the door, no doubt scooping Jane up in his arms and blowing raspberry kisses on her cheeks.

*

** _February 2046_ **

A thick layer of snow is covering the grounds, and the forecast warned that more would pour down soon but that did not deter passionate Canadians from lining up in front of St. Bartholomew’s dressed in black and clutching bouquets of the most vibrant, lively flowers. From the windows of Rideau Hall, Scott watches as they make slow progress towards the church, the elderly trembling as they kneel down to place their flowers against the gates and the young children dashing ahead at the urging of their parents to do the same. Several staff members hurry over to the crowd and serve them something warm to drink. Scott suspects it’s Jane’s doing, as are the refreshments laid out on the tables in the large room he is in at the moment.

“Scott,” Jane calls when she spots him loitering by the curtains, “would you like something to drink?” She motions to the tray of dainty little teacups and teapots laid out in front of her. On the couch surrounding the tea table are members of Team Canada he hasn’t met with personally in decades. “We’re reminiscing.”

“I can’t believe Tessa never told you about the hockey incident,” Chiddy says.

“Oh, she has, as have the kind people of the internet, but I’ve always been curious as to what your version of the story was, since you were right next to him.” Jane stirs a cup of tea before handing it to him. “Your side-eye was quite impressive.”

Scott makes his way over to the couch. Kaetlyn shuffles over and pats the seat next to her.

“Some coffee might be nice,” Scott says. Really, what he needs is some alcohol, but the royal palace is hardly the place to ask for it and the heir apparent is definitely not the person to ask it from.

The teapots look identical to one another, but trust Jane to know exactly which one contains black coffee. She fills the cup to the brim, then reaches over to the sugar bowl. Her fingers barely skim the lid before she pauses. “You take it black, don’t you? I’d almost forgotten; it’s been so long since we’ve last seen you.”

The coffee burns his throat and tongue; a nice distraction from everything. It has been a good four, five years since he’s last stayed long enough for coffee. Usually, his visits were brief and during dinner time, with plenty of dishes, toasts, and mindless chatter to distract him from the elephant in the room that was his crippling relationship with his former skating partner, the Queen.

Over the phone, he could make decent conversation. Sitting across from her, he could not.

“Oh, don’t look so guilty, Scott,” Jane laughs, busying herself by pushing the plate of biscuits towards him. Her laughter is softer, more reserved than those of her sisters’. Scott distinctly remembers the first time he had lunch with all three of the princesses and being struck by just how differently Jane carried herself.

As his wife commented afterwards, it was like Jane was made to be Queen in a way that the firstborns of the generations that came before her clearly were not.

“We know how busy you are,” Jane continues, breaking Scott’s train of thought. “Coaching the top three ice dance teams in the worlds is no part-time job. Not to mention all those promising juniors you’re got there.”

“Are we talking about Blake and Morgan?” Charlotte drapes herself over the armrest of the couch, much to her sister’s blatant disapproval. “Because if we’re not, we totally should. Their free dance this season was _phenomenal_. I watch it religiously. In fact, I’ve re-watched it so many times, I’m actually surprised no staff member has staged an intervention yet.”

“It _was_ wonderful hearing _O Canada _being blasted in the rink. Not that our athletes don’t bring back golds, of course, but it so rarely happens in figure skating.” Jane entwines her fingers together and places them on her lap. “It must have been quite the feeling, Scott. Seeing your students on the podium. It must have brought back a lot of memories.”

Scott’s mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the copious amount of coffee he’s inhaled these past couple of hours.

“It did,” he says. “It must have brought back a lot of memories for you too.” Jane, too, was a competitive figure skater. She’d clenched the gold medal at the first and last Olympics she competed at. Scott sometimes wondered if she would’ve gone on to do another four years had she led a more ordinary life.

“It did. Actually, Mom and I—”

A man no younger than Scott himself clears his throat, cutting Jane off. He appears to be a member of the staff and is holding a scroll in his hand. Scott didn’t even know they used those anymore.

“May I have a word, Your… Royal Highness?” the man says in a low voice. He regards the others wearily, and they immediately erupt into polite conversation about how their partners and children are doing. “It’s regarding the seating arrangements for the, uh… for the funeral. Princess Eleanor is quite insistent that your uncle be seated at the way back of the church.”

“No.”

Everyone’s heads turn towards the entry, and Scott sighs in relief that it’s only a handful of close friends and family members that are present, because Eleanor has clearly downed a drink or three.

“_No_,” she says, swaying slightly as she pushes herself off of the door frame. Somehow, she manages to carry herself with a surprising amount of grace as she stumbles towards them. “I said we should put him so far back he’s seated _outside_ the church.” Her eyes look positively _deadly_ as she takes in the people seated on the couch. Eventually, they land on her older sister. “Tell me, dear sister: why has Casey been invited anyways?”

Jane sits up straighter (metaphorically speaking, of course – there was no way she could have sat up any straighter than she already was) and angles her body towards Eleanor, but not before glancing at the rest of them. It’s clear that Jane means business, and everyone takes it as their cue to disperse throughout the room promptly.

“He has been invited because he is Mom’s brother, our uncle, and the former King,” Scott hears Jane tell Eleanor as Kaetlyn gently leads him away. “Now, if you are drunk, I suggest you go upstairs to your room before Grandma sees you—”

“_Brother_,” Eleanor mocks. She cackles, throwing her head back, till Scott can’t tell if she’s laughing or sobbing.

“Please go upstairs, Elle. You’re drunk, and you’re going to say something you’ll regret in the morning.”

“Did you know it was Mom’s last wishes to—”

“Eleanor--”

“—and buried with Papa?”

“Can we please talk about this later?”

“Come on, Scott.” Kaetlyn pulls at his arm again. Only then does Scott notice almost everyone that was once in the room had made themselves scarce, including the staff, friends, and family alike. “Marie and Patch are going to be arriving soon, aren’t they? We should go meet them downstairs.”

“—and that’s when I realized,” Eleanor’s voice echoes throughout the room, “that she wanted to be reunited with Papa: the one man that never let her down.”

“Stop it, Eleanor,” Jane snaps.

“Am I wrong?” Bracing one hand on the couch, Eleanor turns, just enough to look Scott squarely in the eye. Her other hand is holding a flask, which she takes a swig out of before asking, “Am I wrong, _Uncle_ Scott?”

The silence in the room is deafening. Kaetlyn’s insistent tugging stops, and Charlotte, who is curled up on the couch with her nose buried in her forearm, flinches. Even Jane, always diplomatic, always composed, always maneuvering around in the gray area, glances over at him, though she looks away so quickly Scott thinks he might have imagined it. 

“No,” he says.

*

** _February 2022_ **

The flight to Beijing is excruciatingly long, but hardly long enough for Tessa’s nerves to calm down at the prospect of being in the presence of her former colleagues. Many of her closest friends from her days as a competitive figure skater have hung up their skates during the four years since the PyeongChang Olympics, but Tessa is the only one that has stuffed her skates in a closet and locked it shut, the rest having moved on to related fields such as coaching, choreographing, and commentating. The last time she checked, Meagan will be there with her husband as a coach, Kaetlyn will be there to cheer on her fiancé and do some work with CBC, and Scott…

“Your Majesty.”

Tessa shelves that thought for a moment and puts on an easy smile for her Private secretary, Eddie.

“Eddie,” she greets. “How much longer till we land?”

“The captain says we still have about three hours to go, Ma’am.”

Tessa laces her fingers together to keep herself from fidgeting. “Wonderful.” Eddie takes a sharp breath and opens his mouth to speak but hesitates. “What is it?”

Eddie clears his throat. “Ma’am, we have kept your schedule relatively free at your request. Your presence is only required twice at Canada House: once to greet the athletes at the start of the Olympics and once more to congratulate them at the end.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” She was free to do whatever she liked the rest of the time. She thought she might go and watch the figure skating events. Maybe a couple of others as well. Jordan was going to be flying in a few days later with her fiancé and had already made Tessa promise to go and watch hockey with them. “Why? Am I needed elsewhere?”

“Well, CBC contacted us and was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving a short interview during the ice dance event.”

“That’ll be fine. I was planning on going anyways.”

Eddie hesitates. It gives the moment more gravitas than Tessa thinks is necessary.

“It’s fine, Eddie,” she laughs. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve done plenty of these sorts of things before. Besides, it isn’t as though I’ve got anything better to do. Do you know who the interviewers will be?”

“Not for certain yet, Ma’am, but I believe it will be Ms. Osmond.”

Tessa’s shoulders sag in relief. “That’s nice to hear. Interviewers are getting trickier with their questions these days. It’s good to know I’ll be interviewed by someone I trust.”

“Certainly, Ma’am.” He pauses. “As a matter of fact, it was Ms. Osmond that contacted us on behalf of CBC, specifically to let us know that Mr. Moir will be in attendance. They wanted to stage a surprise reunion of sorts. Apparently, they have made the assumption that you and Mr. Moir haven’t seen each other since the last Olympics.”

Tessa feels the blood draining from her face. She is very grateful that the cabin lights have been switched off. “Well,” she says once she’s found her voice again, “they aren’t entirely wrong, are they?”

Eddie wisely leaves the question unanswered. “Ms. Osmond thought we ought to know in advance what the producers were planning.”

“That’s very kind of her.” She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “We’ll be interviewed together, then?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Tessa nods slowly. She’d tried on so many occasions to try to keep in touch with Scott over the past couple of years. It had all ended rather awkwardly, with him not answering then texting her a rubbish excuse later on and her giving curt answers to his attempts to keep the conversation flowing. Perhaps what their relationship needed was to be forced in one room together – to be forced to look into each other’s eyes.

“Please tell them I’d be happy to do the interview,” she says.

All in all, the interview goes smoothly. Kaetlyn squeals when she sees Tessa, doing a little curtsy before flinging herself into Tessa’s arms. Scott, who arrived earlier than Tessa for once in his life, smiles. As she takes her seat next to him, Tessa can’t help but notice that his hair is more pepper and salt than she remembers it to be. Four years really is a long time.

When the interview starts, Tessa is amused to find that Kaetlyn is more or less ignoring the cue cards she’s been given by the producers. Instead of the personal questions Tessa is certain Kaetlyn is supposed to ask, Kaetlyn promptly drives the conversation towards more appropriate, less provocative topics, such as how it feels to be an audience member rather than a competitor. Tessa and Scott talk about how excited they are to see their former rink-mates compete, admit that it’s a bit bittersweet that they’re not competing this time round, and gush that they are incredibly proud of how Team Canada did in the team event. By the time the interview is over, Tessa’s laugh isn’t forced and his gaze on her as she speaks doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as it did in the beginning.

“Thank you so much for your time, guys,” Kaetlyn says, giving them one last hug. She then asks them to wait a moment and rushes off, returning with two white envelopes. “I brought them with me because I wasn’t sure if I was going to see you again after today.” She hands one to Scott and the other to Tessa. “I know you’re both super busy, but it would mean a lot to us if you could be there.”

Tessa runs her fingers over the beautiful calligraphy that spells out her name. _Tessa_. It’s been a while since she’s seen her name written that way. These days, it’s _Her Majesty The Queen_. If her first name is ever used, it’s _Theresa_, the name she chose to take when she became Queen.

“Of course I’ll be there,” she says right away.

Scott, on the other hand, takes a little while to confirm his attendance. He, too, is staring at the names on his envelope. Tessa wonders if it’s odd for him to see his name written next to the name of a woman that is not her, or if it feels right, like her name had been a place holder for his wife’s all this time.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says. Then, before Tessa can ask if he’d like to hang out with her later, he stalks out of the room, muttering something about his wife that Tessa doesn’t care to hear about.

The remaining days of the Olympics fly by. Tessa catches up with a good number of her friends, including Marie, who fusses over Tessa, saying how exhausted she must be, and Ashley, who promptly asks if the President of the United States is as obtuse as he appears to be on television.

“I’ve only met him once over dinner, so I wouldn’t know,” is Tessa’s diplomatic answer. “I imagine he’s quite sharp, though. He graduated from an Ivy League school, didn’t he?”

She doesn’t mention what the President’s response was when she brought up the five Brazilian women that went missing in Texas last fall.

“How much is a Brazilian?” he’d said.

It had taken Tessa several minutes to understand what he meant.

“Ah, well,” Benjamin Blanchard, a friend of Jordan’s from her London days, chuckles when Tessa re-tells this story to him over dinner. He has been in China for the past couple of months doing research with a partner university. It concluded just in time for him to catch the Olympics before flying back to England. “There are different types of smarts in the world, Your Majesty.”

Tessa groans. “Can’t you just call me Tessa?”

Benjamin chuckles. “A physicist might be brilliant when he talks about quantum mechanics, but put him in a room full of historians and he might embarrass himself by getting evens from World Wars I and II mixed up.”

“Why, Dr. Blanchard. Don’t tell me you’re referring to yourself.”

He holds his hands up in defeat. “I knew with absolute certainty Hitler and the Nazis were all World War II, but I also knew for sure that the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were also parts of World War II, and I kept thinking, ‘_Wait. Then what in the bloody hell was World War I all about?_’ Almost convinced myself that Hitler was part of World War I. Thank God I had the brains to look it up on the internet before I reached _that_ conclusion.”

“History is confusing,” she says. “Thought not as hard of a subject to learn as physics, I imagine.”

“Your Majesty, difficulty is very subjective. I, for once, was _dreadful_ at history. And I tried so hard. Studied it harder than physics! But I just couldn’t retain the information. When we were studying the history of France, I’m sorry to say that I simply put _Louis_ and some random roman numeral for every question.”

Tessa laughs so hard that she almost spits out the wine she’d been drinking. “Same,” she says, which then makes him laugh, a deep, husky, but, at the same time, pure and child-like rumble that she thinks could make her smile no matter how gloomy the day has been.

Ben walks her back to her room, and she almost wishes they’d ventured out further for dinner because the moment when she needs to bid him goodnight comes too soon. She flops onto her bed, exhausted from all the socializing she’d had to do all day, only to receive a chain of messages from Jordan demanding she know how the ‘date’ with Ben went.

_It wasn’t a date, Jordan_, Tessa is typing when there is a knock on the door.

“Your Majesty, Mr. Scott Moir is here to see you.”

Tessa bolts up. She hasn’t seen Scott all month, save for the thirty minutes their interview took. She knows he’s leaving tomorrow without seeing the closing ceremony and that tonight is the last time she’ll be able to see him. Hence, she pads towards the door and clicks it open.

The bodyguard is eyeing Scott suspiciously, as if Scott Moir is someone that his boss has told him he needs to watch out for. Tessa can see why. Scott’s cheeks are flushed. She’d contribute it to the cold had she not known him better. She invites him in, only so neither of them will embarrass themselves in the presence of her staff. He walks halfway to her bed, then just… lingers.

Tessa perches herself on the bed. “So,” she says, “to what do I owe the pleasure, Scott?”

He digs his heels into the ground. “Do I need a reason to see a friend?”

She feels an eyebrow shooting up and, quite frankly, doesn’t care enough to conceal her incredulity at his words. “No. But you’ve been avoiding me like the plague these past couple of weeks so is it wrong of me to assume you have one?”

He stiffens, and Tessa thinks that was the last straw for him. She gulps, wondering what she should say to rectify this situation one moment then scoffing because there’s nothing she did wrong the next.

When Scott does move eventually, it’s a sharp turn of the head that startles her out of her thoughts. It is followed by confident strides towards her. He stops, right at the foot of her bed, and her neck hurts looking up at him. His eyes are dark and his jaws are clenched, and he is breathing so harshly out of his nose that she can’t tell if he’s angry or he’s trying not to cry.

“Scott?”

She barely gets the word out before he takes her face in his hands and kisses her deeply. When their lips part, Tessa has a brief moment to register what is going on: he is on her bed, looking directly into her eyes, and although a faint whiff of alcohol is trailing out of his mouth, he isn’t drunk. Neither is she, for that matter. And they had just kissed.

She had just kissed a married man. A man with a wife and a child, both of whom were waiting for him somewhere in the Olympic village.

The sensible thing to do would be to stop him. Hell, shoving him away should have been the instinctual response. Except every cell in her body – including those that make up her brain—are frozen in shock, and before they get a chance to recover and function, his lips are on hers again, and she sits there like a gawking idiot, only vaguely aware that it’s Scott’s hand cradling her head, Scott’s lips that are scratching hers roughly, Scott’s mouth that taste like Christmas, Scott’s body that is pressed up against hers, and that everything she’s sensing is Scott – _her_ Scott.

Next thing she knows, he’s tearing her dress off her and she’s tugging at his shirt and he’s lavishing her body with kisses while she fumbles with the buckle of his pants. If there’s any semblance of sensibility in her brain, it certainly doesn’t speak up.

“I want you,” is the second thing Scott says since he’s entered this room, and she should decline, but she wants him so badly – has wanted him so badly for the longest time -- that her next move is to guide him into her.

It’s when she’s coming down from her high that her brain flicks back on and the severity of the situation hits her with the force of a sports car speeding down the highway. Scott is still on top of her – still _in_ her – and oh god. She thinks she might throw up.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. Scott must be thinking the same because he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge the situation in any way, shape, or form. Finally, she shoves him off of her. His weight is lifted immediately – a testament to how easily she could’ve stopped him if she’d wanted to.

“Oh my god,” she says again, her lungs heaving.

“Tess—”

Tessa holds a finger up and squeezes her eyes shut. “Don’t.” She takes a couple of breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth before opening her eyes slowly. She gathers her discarded clothes and slips them back on. Scott does the same.

“Tessa—”

“This never happened.” She fights her instincts and looks him square in the eye. “Tonight never happened, Scott. Do you understand?”

He clenches his jaw again, and she knows he’s about to fire back at her, anger blurred with hurt.

“Scott—” Her voice quivers. “Scott, we can’t… if your wife finds out about this, the next time you see her will be at court, and I can’t… you can’t, Scott. You have a son. You have a family to protect. So please… _please_ forget this happened.”

They stand at opposite corners of the room, ironic really, how they’ve arranged to have maximum distance between them when they were at the minimum just mere minutes ago.

“Are you telling me as the Queen or as a business partner?” Scott asks eventually.

_I’m telling you as your friend_, is what Tessa meant to say. But instead, what comes out of her mouth is, “Fuck you, Scott.”

*

** _February 2046_ **

During the funeral, snowflakes flutter past the windows and wrap the church in a soft, white blanket. Scott diverts his attention to them, unable to bear the sight of the three girls standing next to their mother’s casket. He has no clue as to why he’s been invited to sit in the first row with Tessa’s immediate family members, but apparently it was a part of Tessa’s will.

Scott thinks it must be the cruelest act Tessa has ever subjected him to.

Eleanor is the only one of the children that is openly weeping, Charlotte having cried so much the night before that her eyes are bloodshot and void of tears, though her breaths are just as erratic as her sister’s. Jane has yet to drop the brave front she’s been putting on these past couple of days. Her hands are steady as she grabs a fistful of dirt and sprinkles it onto the casket. She was the one praised throughout her childhood for being an old lady in a pint-sized body, and Scott himself has tended to the needs of other children during gatherings because Jane always looked fine no matter the situation. But now, she worries him the most.

Scott shuffles over when the girls return to their seats. Although Jane is seated furthest from him, he does not miss the way her fingers, neatly folded on her lap, are pinching her thighs. He reaches over and places his hand on hers. To his surprise, she latches on and, giving it a quick squeeze, turns to look at him. For the first time, he sees tears in her eyes.

Afterwards, Jane excuses herself to thank her college friends for coming, as does Charlotte. Eleanor, however, lingers.

“Uncle Scott,” she calls as he is rising from his seat. He sits back down, and his heart breaks in two when her lips tremble. “I’m so sorry for what I said yesterday. I’m just… I just can’t believe she’s gone. I thought we’d have years, _decades_ more with her. She was so health conscious her entire life. When I overheard the doctors saying the stress of being Queen most likely hastened her death, I… I just snapped.”

Scott pulls her in for a hug. She clings onto him for dear life, breathing labored from all the crying she’s done these past couple of days.

“I know, Ellie. I do. I thought this day wouldn’t come for years. And you weren’t entirely wrong. I’ve let your mother down many times.” It’s a great regret of his.

Eleanor pulls back sharply. Her eyes are frantic. “You’ve never let her down, Uncle Scott. Never. She’s only said the kindest things about you around the house. I only said what I said because I was mad at myself for being so awful to her at times and putting off apologies because I thought for sure she’d live till 110 and… and I wanted to take that anger out on someone else. But it shouldn’t have been you.” She offers a sad smile. “You were really important to her, Scott. And I’m glad you’re here, even though she is not. I’m really sorry.”

Scott tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, just as he used to do with Tessa’s. “You have nothing to apologize for, Ellie,” he says. “Though you might if you don’t rescue poor Lottie from Cara. That woman’s been trying to get the secret ingredients to your sister’s Lamingtons for years no matter how many times I’ve told her there is no secret ingredient – she just can’t bake to save her life!”

That tickles the first laughter out of Eleanor during this horrible week, and Scott takes a moment to lean back in his seat and give himself a pat on the back for making all three girls smile – even if it was for a split second – at least once.

*

** _February 2018_ **

Over the month it takes for an athlete to get to the hosting country, attend the opening ceremony, compete in their sport, attend the closing ceremony, and fly back home, something is bound to go wrong. An illness might sweep through Olympic village, an injury might be sustained during a practice, a costume malfunction might occur, and so on. But so far, the PyeongChang Olympics have been going swimmingly. They carried the flag at the opening ceremony, they won the team event, they were currently ranked first after the short program, and both she and Scott were happy and healthy and ready to go seize that second gold medal. It was too good to be true. So while Tessa was elated at the smooth progression of the Olympics, a small part of her knew the other shoe was going to drop at some point.

She just didn’t know that that moment was going to be now, mere minutes from taking the ice one last time.

She had just gotten off of the ice, the warm-up time for their free dance having ended, when Sir Edward asked to speak to her in private. She’d hesitated – they were about to go on to skate and she wanted to be focused – but nodded upon seeing the grave look in his eyes.

“What is it, Sir Edward?” Tessa asks, leading him to the changing rooms. She knocks on the door and peeks in to ensure no one is in a compromising position.

Sir Edward does not speak until the door is firmly shut behind them and they are five steps away from it.

“The King has decided to abdicate.”

The words shock her system the way a bucket of ice-cold water might if it were dumped on her as suddenly and as forcefully as Sir Edward’s words were.

Sir Edward continues before Tessa can recover. “He will be receiving his abdication papers in the morning.”

Tessa pulls out a chair and sits down, ignoring the way her legs tremble as she does so. “And when he signs these papers… what then?” She witnessed the passing down of the Crown from her father to her oldest brother, but this… this was different. Her father was well into his retirement years when he stepped down. Casey was half his father’s age, and Poppy wasn’t even close to hitting the double digits.

“Once he signs the papers, he will no longer be King, and his position will be filled by someone else.”

“Poppy is far too young to be Queen.”

“She is. Fortunately, she is not the one the King intends to name his successor.”

“Oh, thank god.” Tessa relaxes into her seat, though she doesn’t know what she expected. No matter how much he disliked being King, her brother would never pass the burden onto his young daughter. “Does Kevin know?”

“I believe not, Ma’am. You are the only member of the family who knows, though I suspect Queen Katherine knew of the King’s desire to abdicate.” Sir Edward pauses, clearly waiting for Tessa to ask the obvious question. When she doesn’t, he continues. “I wanted to tell you first, as soon as I got confirmation, so you wouldn’t be caught off guard.” He sighs. “The King has named you his successor, Ma’am.”

Tessa blinks. She’s glad she’s seated, because the room is spinning around her. The fluorescent lights above get brighter and brighter till she has to tear her eyes away from Sir Edward and direct them to the floor.

“Tessa?” A series of knocks follow Scott’s voice. “You ok in there?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m fine,” Tessa exclaims, her voice leaping up an octave. She knows she hasn’t fooled anyone, least of all Scott, but if he noticed that something is off, he doesn’t comment on it. “I’ll be out in a second.”

She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. She stuffs the conversation she just had with Sir Edward into a tiny box, locks it up, and shelves it in a cupboard deep inside her brain to be dealt with later. Plastering a smile on her face, she stands up, tucks the chair back in, and smooths down her dress unnecessarily.

“Did you bet that the French would win, Sir Edward?” she jokes. It does nothing to brighten the mood, but to Sir Edward’s credit, he does smile, albeit stiffly and with a dash of sorrow.

“I would never, Ma’am,” he says. “And I am very sorry.”

Tessa puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. “You’ve always had my best interest at heart, Sir Edward. I have never doubted that, and I don’t intend to start now.”

Sir Edward is well-known for not showing much emotion, but Tessa swears his eyes are sparkling with tears. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

Less than an hour later, when she and Scott are standing on top of the podium, waiting to receive a plush mascot, tears start flooding her eyes against her will. Scott notices, of course he does, and shakes his head. His warm hand rubs her back while she wipes her tears away.

“Don’t do this to me,” he says, his own eyes shining with unspoken emotion.

She allows herself to squeeze her arms around his neck just a bit tighter and let her nose inhale his scent for just a bit longer when he lifts her off of the podium right there on the rink, again when they receive their last gold medals, and once more when he drops her off at her room.

“I’m sorry, Scott,” she mumbles every single one of those times. It’s only the last time that he hears it, and his chest rumbles as he laughs.

“You must be more drunk than I thought you were, T,” he says. He cradles her head in his hand. “Some things just never change, eh?”

He’s referring to the night they won silver in Sochi, and the reminder makes her cling to him tighter, because back then, only some things had changed. But this time? This time, everything is going to change.

*

** _February 2046_ **

Scott finds Jane sitting by herself on a wooden swing just outside the church. She pushes herself back and forth, occasionally straightening her legs and lifting them up so that her feet don’t drag across the snow. Scott watches from afar, wondering when the toddler from whom the swing was built for had grown into an adult.

“You can come join me, you know,” she calls out after a while. She peers over her shoulder once, then motion to the swing next to her. That one was built because she and Eleanor were not capable of sharing during their early childhood years, supposedly.

“Jake loved pushing you on these,” Scott recalls. He rarely brought his children with him when he visited Tessa. It was an odd feeling, watching his boys and Tessa’s girls running around together. He’d imagined it during their early twenties and had jokingly mentioned how his future children were bound to be close to hers. At some point during their comeback season, however, he began assuming his children were going to be hers and vice versa. Watching the five children playing out in the courtyard together felt as wrong as seeing Tessa talk to his ex-wife.

“I remember,” Jane says. “He was excellent at it. So patient too. I’m not surprised he’s a good father. I’m sure his kids are counting down the days till he comes home.”

Both his sons worked for the armed forces and were deployed overseas. Scott wrote to them to let them know of their favorite aunt’s passing. He isn’t sure if either of them have received their letter, but he suspects the news has reached them one way or another by now.

“I haven’t seen Emma around,” Scott comments.

“That’s because she isn’t here.” Jane kicks the snow piled under her feet. “I didn’t want to make a statement,” she shrugs as a way of explanation.

“No one would have had a problem with it, I’m sure. We’re well into the 21st century now.”

“It would’ve been a statement regardless of her gender.”

Scott has nothing to say to that, and the two sit there, swinging back and forth mindlessly in comfortable silence. After a while, she asks about his grandchildren – a conversation that naturally progresses into stories of his childhood, then hers.

“When I was younger, I used to hate the color of my eyes,” Jane confesses. “They looked incredibly plain next to my sisters’. Everyone always commented on how beautiful Eleanor’s eyes were, how, with her blonde curls, she looked like a porcelain doll. I, on the other hand, was Plain Jane, with brown eyes and brown hair.”

Scott flinches. His wife had told him that that was the nickname the press had given the then teenager.

“Horrible thing to say to a child, but it does kind of suits her, doesn’t it?” she’d said. “She’s got no personality, poor thing.”

“She’s not plain,” Scott had snapped.

His wife had snorted and slam dunked his pile of pancakes onto his plate. “Of course she isn’t, dear.”

“I dealt with it fine on most days – I had to get used to it quickly, especially after Charlotte came along – but there were days when I hated the way I looked. And whenever I was having one of those days, my dad would tell me about his own father. How much he looked up to him, what a great man he was, and how, even after a horrible day, his warm, brown eyes made him feel better.” Jane is no longer looking at him, but rather staring into the distance. “He told me that it was his father’s eyes that taught him what unconditional love feels like and mine that taught him how to give it.”

“You never had the chance to meet him, did you? Your grandfather, I mean.”

Jane shakes her head. “He passed away about the year before I was born. My dad always used to say, ‘_When your Grandpa left, he gave me you._’”

“You must miss him terribly.”

“I do. I thought it would get better as time passed, but I guess that’s just not the way life works.” Jane starts kicking the snow again, making a little dent in the blanket of snow. “My mom used to say it too, you know,” she says abruptly.

Scott glances over at her. “Say what?”

“_When he left, he gave me you_. She’d only say it when she thought I was asleep, but I still remember how much weight she used to put into those words as she whispered it in my ear. I thought she meant my grandfather, but now that I think about it, I don’t recall her ever specifying who _he_ was.”

As she says this, Jane looks Scott directly in the eye, and suddenly, haunting memories flood his mind: PyeongChang, the Thank You Canada Tour, the Coronation, his wedding, Bei—

_Beijing._

“Maybe it was your grandfather,” Scott says, more to himself than her. “I heard he was very fond of your mom.”

“Maybe.” Jane smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s a secret that was buried with her, I suppose.” She smooths out her attire and pulls herself off of the swing. “I should get back inside. Help them polish off the cupcakes Lottie has no doubt brought for the guests.”

Scott nods. He swallows the lump in his throat, then says, “I think I’ll stay out here for a bit longer.”

This time, it’s Jane’s turn to nod. “Don’t be too long, Uncle Scott,” she says, worry evident in her voice. “You don’t want to catch a cold in this weather.”

Scott listens to the crunch of snow under Jane’s feet as she increases the distance between them.

“Uncle Scott?” she calls after her fifth step. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” she says, turning to head back towards the church again. “You tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to everyone that made it to the end of this story! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated. 
> 
> I hope everyone's having a wonderful week so far!

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to everyone that made it to the end of this story! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated. 
> 
> I hope everyone's having a wonderful week so far!


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